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tters 

from 

Beatrice 







By 



Private Pierre Loving 



Letters from Beatrice 

(to a Private in the Medical Department) 



BY 

PRIVATE PIERRE LOVING 

Sketches by Norman Jacobsen 




OSWEGO TIMES COMPANY 
OSWEGO, N. Y. 






« 



These letters first appeared in Ontario Post, the soldiers 
weekly, published by the enlisted personnel of the U. S. A., 
General Hospital No. 5, Fort Ontario, N. Y., where Charles, 
their happy recipient, was stationed for a while. 



TRAfJSFERrvcD FfiOM 
OOPYRie»T Of FIfeF 

SEP »a 



FEB 24 1912 



"Good-bye Ma! Good-bye Pa! 
Good-bye, Mule, with yer old hee-haw! 
I may not know what the war's about, 
But you bet, by gosh, I'll soon find out. 
An', O my sweetheart, don't you fear, 
I'll bring you a king fer a souvenir; 
I'll git you a Turk and a Kaiser too. 
An' that's about all one feller can do!" 

— Popular Song. 

To the private in the Medical Department, who, 
while doing his part, still looked enviously at the "long, 
lean country gink," as "he struck fer town by the old 
dirt road," singing the foregoing song. 



I. 

Boston, Mass., Jan. 3, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

I have wanted ever so long to tell you how much 
mother and especially I appreciate your having enlisted. 
We realize that you have made an enormous sacrifice 
for us (who stay at home, knitting most of the time), 
and for the cause of Democracy. The sacrifice you 
have made is really great, and it is up to us to tell you 
what we think about it, to encourage you and to make 
you as comfortable as we can by our occasional small 
gifts. 

I am knitting a helmet for you, and a muffler, 
which I hope will keep you good and warm. My 
thoughts always run to something warm for you — 
wristlets, a sweater, woolen socks and things like that. 

I suppose your training is very strenuous up at 
Fort Ontario. I cannot help smiling when I think of 
your having to drill, as no doubt you do, about six 
hours a day. Jack Glennon is at Camp Upton, and he 
writes that they are always kept on the run, with trench 
digging, drilling, kitchen police and bayonet practice. 
I don't suppose you have bayonet practice, but there 
must be other things. It is very hard for me to picture 
you as a nurse. Do you do very much nursing? I 
suppose you must know quite a good deal about medi- 
cines by now. Isn't it hard to nurse patients in the 
cold? 

Every night before going to bed I think of you 



sleeping in a frosty tent with nothing but a bit of can- 
vas between you and the heartless sky. I can well imag- 
ine that campfires are not very warm. I feel guilty 
when I bask in the comforts of our steam-heated flat. 
We are cutting down our electricity, and the janitor 
has warned us that the steam-heat will be decreased. 
We are sparing with sugar and flour, because we want 
our boys in the unsheltered trenches and in the com- 
fortless camps, like yours, to get some of it, at least, no 
matter how little. We suffer all these things patiently 
and with cheerfulness, because we know that you are 
suffering much more. 

How is the food they give you? Not any too good, 
I fancy. I shall send you some cake, dates, candy and 
cigarettes. I am also making something which I know 
you will appreciate more than anything else — some 
trench candles. The president of our Red Cross coterie 
has a new formula. They are made of newspapers 
dipped in ?/ I haven't mastered all the details yet, 
but, as soon as I do, I shall make you ten or a dozen, 
and perhaps you can share them with your friends who 
have no light to read their letters by. Poor things! 

I am heart and soul in the prohibition movement. I 
give little talks at our church and at our club on the 
benefits of prohibition. One of my best arguments is 
that the barley aand malt should be hoarded. The coun- 
try will need those products. At all events, our sol- 
diers come first. If these products are sent them In- 
stead of being used for such evil purposes as the manu- 
facture of liquor, the country will be better off and they 
will be able to fight all the better for the cause of De- 
mocracy. 

With loving regards from mother and myself, I am. 

Sincerely yours, 

Beatrice. 
6 



r : 







They say smoking is the soldiers' pleasure 



II. 

Boston, Mass., Jan. 10, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

It is eight o'clock, and through my window I can see 
a full moon out. It is getting colder and colder, and my 
thoughts are all of you. The heat is getting stingier 
and stingier, but mother and I have resolved to sacrifice 
ourselves in all the comforts of life, for the sake of our 
brave soldiers. Whenever I think of our brave soldiers 
fighting in the trenches for democracy, I think also of 
you. I presume at this minute you are sitting around 
the campfire, trying to keep warm, and telling stories, 
just as soldiers do in the pictures of the Sunday supple- 
ments of the newspapers. 

I have recently read about the hardships American 
soldiers suffered at Valley Forge, and sometimes I read 
in a history about Napoleon (the little man in the 
cocked hat, you, know), and his campaign in Prussia or 
somewhere. (I do hope it was Prussia, because it's all 
the Prussians deserve with their Kaiser, mailed fist, 
atrocities and things of that sort.) I have heard that 
the winters at your camp are, severe, and I know when 
the history of this war comes to be written in after ages, 
the historian will not forget what you and your worthy 
comrades, like Washington at Valley Forge, suffered at 
Fort Ontario. 

Did you get the cigars I sent you? They say 
smoking is the soldiers' only pleasure. The cigar store 



man said that the brand he induced me to buy had 
been on the market over thirty years. I thought you 
would appreciate a "well-seasoned cigar," as he put it. 
He was very enthusiastic about the cigars, and said: 
"Cremos, like Democracy, are conquering the world." 
So I bought them at once. I hope you will like them. 

Do you have to wear an identification tag? I sup- 
pose all soldiers must. Mother is very much concerned 
over your identification tag. She is of the opinion that 
something radical should be done immediately to save 
it, as far as possible, from the fierce gunfire you will 
have to encounter. A bullet might hit it and disfigure 
it and perhaps your name will be blotted out. You can't 
imagine how much she worries about it. Well, to make 
a long story short, she has gone to the jeweler's and has 
ordered a very pretty silver case, which she trusts will 
protect it. 

The girls had a very heated discussion at the club 
the other day. Things became so warm that Jane Dur- 
ham and her crowd threatened to resign. The row 
started over a paper read by Virginia Atterbury on con- 
ditions at our camps. 

During the discussion which followed, Jane asserted 
that the war games at our camps were conducted with 
real bullets and real cannonballs. Virginia replied that 
it was not so. I knew so little about the matter that I 
did not know which side to take. I was at a loss, but I 
rose finally and said that I had a friend at Fort Ontario, 
who, I was sure, could decide the question for us. 

So, Charles, I want you to write a short paper on 
your war games at Fort Ontario — the materials used, 
the number of men injured, and whether you use real 
bullets or not. Perhaps you only use dum-dum bullets 
in these games. In any event, it will be a great 

10 



pleasure for me to get upon the floor and read your 
paper to the girls. And I'm sure you'll do this for me. 
Mother asks me to convey her best wishes, and 
hopes that the silver case for your identification tag 
will be strong and solid enough. 

Sincerely, 

Beatrice. 



11 



III. 

Boston, Mass., Jan. 17, 1918. 
Dear Charles : 

Your letter was most welcome. I was glad to be 
corrected about the dum-dum bullets, but I almost felt 
like crying, Charles, because I had told Jane Durham 
that I was sure you used some sort of bullets, and, of 
course, she will think me a cheat. 

I cannot tell you how surprised I was to learn that 
you drilled with litters. I had no idea people ever drilled 
with litters — but I suppose they are quite deadly. tSo 
please be careful. 

In your letter, Charles, you say that Lake Ontario 
is full of ice caves, but you say nothing at all about the 
dangers of living in close proximity to them. Aren't 
you afraid of the polar bears and the seals? Perhaps 
the seals are tame. If this is really so, I hope you won't 
think me presumptuous if I ask you to skin one for ine, 
because I've wanted a sealskin coat ever so long, but 
mother thinks they are commonplace this season. 

Things here are very dull, and Ruggles, our Pom- 
eranian, has become a horrid bore. He is very peevish be- 
cause we cut down his allowance of sugar. You see, he 
was accustomed to having six lumps of sugar in his 
sherry-milk, which is a regular part of every meal. Mow 
we allow him four lumps, and he is quite piqu?d about 
it. I would be willing to part with him if you would 
care to have him as a mascot. I shall do this, however, 
only on one condition — that he be fed and treated the 
way he has been raised. 

12 







**Hc was accustomed to have six lumps of sugar in his sherry-milk'' 



This is his daily menu: Breakfast, first cut porter- 
house steak, well trimmed, and sherry-milk, which is 
composed of one part milk and four parts sherry wmc. 
After breakfast a nap. After his nap he must be 
combed and frizzed with aluminum curlers. For lunch- 
eon, French toast in grade A cream and the white flesh 
of a squab, also sherry-milk. After luncheon it is his 
custom to take another nap — his siesta. He must not 
be disturbed in this, because it is his best sleep. For 
dinner, chicken a la king, a cup of creme de cocoa and 
a choice bone full of juicy marrow — also, if he wishes 
it, sherry-milk. 

If you will promise to take care of him the way he 
deserves, I shall be glad to present him to your company 
as a mascot. I don't suppose the dear little creature 
would be as much afraid of litters as of dum-dum bul- 
lets. 

In your letter you refer to some female nurses. This 
was a bit of start^ling news to me. I had no idea you had 
female nurses. You have made me wonder: if there are 
female nurses, what do you do? I simply can't seem 
to straighten out the tangle in my mind. 

No doubt the female nurses are heroic, wonderful 
women who have sacrificed nobly for the cause of de- 
mocracy. As you look into their eyes, you must see a 
transfiguring light burning brightly in them. How won- 
derful it must be to nurse the wounded! You must have 
many wounded now. Do the dears ever speak of their 
mothers and sweethearts back home? How wonderful 
it must be to take their last dying messages! Of course 
I haven't the slightest conception of where Fort Ontario 
is, but I have no doubt it must be somewhere near 
France. 

At any rate, you must be nearer France than we, 

15 



because you are, as you say, near Canada, and Canada 
is quite overrun with French people, I understand. Well, 
it is getting late, and I must "Garfield" on lights, so 
I'm going to bid you good-night. 

Sincerely, 

Beatrice. 



16 



IV. 

Boston, Mass., Jan. 24, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

It seems that I am bound to be disappointed on all 
sides. My dense ignorance of military matters pushes 
me deeper into absurd mistakes. Of course I should 
have known in advance that litters are not arms. But 
then, if they are not arms, will you please enlighten me 
how you can drill with them? 

It has been snowing here, too, but not as much as in 
your section of the country. Sixteen feet of snow — 
just think of it! How thrilling it must be for the men 
to rescue the wounded under fire with skis and snow- 
shoes! I see now, Oh how vividly — that hospital men 
can be heroes, too. At one time, I could not rid myself 
of the persistent thought that they were shirkers. Now 
I know better. 

Yesterday, almost the whole day, I spent shopping 
downtown and I could not resist gazing into all sorts 
of shop windows and admiring the displays. I stopped 
in front of a haberdasher's and suddenly I thought of 
you. So I went inside and bought two beautiful four-in- 
hand mauve ties, which I hope you will find just the 
thing for Saturday inspections. I have seen the Colo- 
nel's picture in the camp newspaper, that you sent me, 
and he looks very genial and I know he will give you 
a good mark for wearing them. 

But, Charles, you will forgive me if I tell you mat 
I was shocked by your last letter. It was about the 

17 



female nurses. I simply can't get over it. In plain, un- 
mistakable English (I have returned to the photograph 
again and again to make sure) ; you say that you sit up 
all night with a female nurse opposite you. Whoever 
heard of such a thing among the people one knows? 
Why, Charles, you know as well as I that it isn't done. 
I think the war has turned the whole world topsy-turvy. 
If there is a Y. M. C. A. shelter at all in the neighbor- 
hood of your trench, I want you to promise me to go 
there immediately. I want you, if you value my friend- 
ship the least bit, to go there every night and read the 
magazines. 

The papers are full of pictures of our soldiers in 
France, wearing gas masks. Of course I know very lit- 
tle about these things, but at least I am not so dense 
as not to realize that, being in a hospital, you do not 
wear gas masks. Instead of gas masks I suppose you 
wear ether masks, which are probably far safer con- 
trivances. 

Melville Stearns has written me from Camp Mer- 
ritt. It was a surprising letter, to say the least. I sim- 
ply couldn't make it or Melville out at all. In it he says 
that in all probability by next month he will be going 

to . Now whatever has come over all the boys I 

once knew? Since they joined the army they are be- 
ginning to use profanity very freely, even to their girl 
friends. And, as for you, Charles, how can I forgive 
you your wild orgies, lasting far into the night, with 
the female nurses? Mercy, I wish I knew where I 
was at! 

Cordially, 

Beatrice. 



18 




**Have me appointed chief nurse at Fort Ontario' 



Boston, Mass., Feb. 7, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

Your last letter was in one way reassuring, and in an- 
other it was not. Of course I was hurt, but only when 
I thought of the wicked impossibilities of the thing. 
I suppose, now that you have explained in full why you 
sit out the night with a female nurse, that the war is 
really to blame for it all. It puts so many temptations 
in the way of men. 

Yesterday, while sitting in my room with Ruggles 
curled up in my lap, I took an inventory of my qualities, 
and — what do you think? I came to the conclusion that 
I possessed the sweetness, patient tenderness and motli- 
erliness which go to make a good nurse. I have nursed 
Ruggles through many sore trials and illnesses, and I 
believe that this experience has developed in me a ca- 
pacity for tending the sick. I wonder whether you 
could not intercede with your superior officers in order 
to have me appointed Chief Nurse at Fort Ontario. I 
promise you that I shall not mind the rigors of out-of- 
doors camp life. I don't think I shall much mind night 
duty. It will be jolly fun. I haven't spoken to mother 
about this yet, but I have already packed a few small 
things in a traveling bag so as to be ready as soon as I 
get your telegram. 

Hastily, 

Beatrice. 



n 



VI. 

Boston, Mass., February 10, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

At present I am quite heartsick because of a great 
loss in our family midst. I have been weeping ever 
since it happened. It is Ruggles. You see, since Mr. 
Hoover has been issuing his frightful bulletins, we have 
been cutting down on his food. As you know, he grew 
peevish and piqued about this, and then became wholly 
unmanageable. Mother and I, against our wishes, de- 
cided at last to get rid of him somehow. Last night I 
asked the poor suffering thing what he preferred to do. 
He looked at me soulfully and I thought that I detected 
a patriotic gleam in his soft eyes. 

This morning I hurried to a Naval Recruiting office 
with Ruggles. They were all very nice to me, from the 
gentleman in charge, who, I suppose, was an Admiral, 
right down to the uniformed orderlies who carried out 
his commands. I suppose they were middies. Aren't 
most officers in the Navy either Admirals or middies? 

Well, Charles, they enlisted him. They took him 
from me and said they would treat him with the usual 
tenderness of seamen and the tried hospitality of the 
Navy. And so, I left the dear, sweet creature who had 
been so good a companion to me. They didn't tell me 
exactly what rank they gave him. But I hope it is a 
high one, because I don't believe he could stand com- 
mon sailor's food very long. 

Charles, I am heart-broken, and that is why I want 
to offer myself to your hospital as a Red Cross nurse. 

22 



You haven't written anything about the town cf 
Oswego, But on looking at a military map of New 
York state, I found that you are located in Oswego. 
Why didn't you tell me of this before? It looks like a 
good-sized town, and I imagine there must be people 
there who are not nurses. Are there any pretty girls? 
Hoping to get your telegram soon, I am 

Faithully yours, 

Beatrice. 



23 



VII. 

Boston, Mass., Feb. 14, 1918 

(After Breakfast) 
Dear Charles: 

The time has arrived when I must be outspoken 
with you. Charles, I think we have come to the climax 
of our friendship. The tone of this letter may seem to 
be one of pique, but I assure you it is quite otherwise. 

All week I waited for your telegram, announcing 
that you had interceded with the officers at your hospi- 
tal; that your request was approved by them and that 
I was to be the chief night nurse. Instead, you sent me 
a ticket to a madcap orgy called the "Riot of the 
Runes." 

All I can say, Charles, is that the name sounds very 
suspicious. What are the horrible creatures? Not 
women, surely? I hope not. Is it not enough for them 
to be widely acclaimed, but must they also add to their 
degradation by rioting? 

Why, Charles, must you partake of everything that 
is, or savors of, the riotous? Oh, dear! I don't know 
why I take this solicitous and sisterly interest in you, 
when, certainly, you do not deserve it. I am beginning 
to think that even night nurses are infinitely more pref- 
erable to Runes. 

Charles, I am wondering whether you read your 
Bible often. I am going to send you a brand new sol- 
dier's Testament that has just come out. It's the sweet- 
est little thing in Morocco you ever saw. Please read 
it often — at night especially. 

(After Lunch) 

Of course, Charles, I have no good reason for 
being so short with you, since I am neither a sister nor 
a relative to you — only a friend. It wasn't ordained 

24 



that we should be more than that. And I've been think- 
ing you must be lonely at Fort Ontario. You must 
sometimes sit and think of how nice it would be if you 
had someone akin to a sister near you. Someone to see 
that you are not neglected, and to take your part when 
you get into scrapes with those horrid officers. To 
plead gently with your superiors in order that they may 
promote you to the grade you best deserve. 

I am beginning to view things in a different light 
now. I shall forgive you for all your short-comings. A 
woman who has a man's interest at heart should always 
forgive his failings. She should help him to rise, as the 
poet says, upon his dead selves, to higher things. She 
should want to lift him up from his sinful dead selves, 
his riotous dead selves, his dissipated dead selves, to 
higher things — to music, to everything that will enno- 
ble him; don't you think so? 

Charles, I can't help weeping when I think how 
lonely and unprotected you are! How exposed to the 
chill winds of chance and misfortune! How run-down 
in appearance because you have no one in the world, 
right by your side, to knit and darn and read poetry to 
you! 

I have been unjust to you, Charles. Instead of 
scolding you the way I did, I should have tried to help 
you in every way possible. 

Oh, Charles, my eyes are red with weeping. I 
have misunderstood you from the beginning! I have 
been wrong and you have been right. Forgive me. 

If you want to send me any personal telegrams, 
send them between 1 and 2 o'clock in the afternoon. 
Mother is usually out then. 

Faithfully yours, 

Beatrice. 

25 



VIII. 

Boston, Mass., February 20, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

What you said about walking on the lake puzzled 
me for the longest while. I racked my little brain, and 
just racked and racked it, but couldn't quite make out 
what you meant. I thought of all the beautiful exam- 
ples in history, of people walking on water: of Moses 
and the Israelites and so on. 

I attributed it to fantasy at first, believing that it 
came to you because you had been reading the Scrip- 
tures diligently of late, according to my wish. But 
then, I reasoned, you could not have gotten so far al- 
ready. 

At last, your pictures came and I understood per- 
fectly what you meant. I saw that the lake was frozen 
and that you had ventured out on the ice. Were you 
hunting for those seals? 

The pictures were very small, and most people 
would have been hard put to recognize you among the 
group, but I picked you out at once. It was your eyes. 
They are so different! 

I understand the allies have recently engaged the 
Germans in an aeroplane battle. It must be a wonder- 
ful sensation to have wings — to fly! The emotion, the 
instinct is so lofty, so exalted, that all our boys must be 
eager to be aviators. And why shouldn't they be? 

Flying is such a natural human instinct, that al- 
most anybody can take to it without effort. 

Every soldier, in my opinion, should have his own 

26 



little aeroplane. If all women, instead of devoting their 
spare time to knitting, would pledge themselves to 
make aeroplanes for our boys in the trenches, a great 
deal more would be accomplished in the end. 

The women of this country, I think, must wake up 
to their responsibility. This is going to be the subject 
of my next talk at my club. I want to do my own part. 
That is why I offered myself as chief nurse to your hos- 
pital. Of course, I would be satisfied with less, but 
since I have been applying myself industriously to the 
Red Cross Magazine, reading every single issue, I now 
feel I am now qualified for one of the superior positions 
in the service. 

(Next Morning) 

Charles, I have changed my mind about being a 
nurse at the Fort. It is terrible— terrible! I have just 
talked to an Englishman, and he told me there are rats 
in the trenches. 

Oh, dear! dear! It's not the enemy's bullets, 
Charles — but I really cannot stand mice or rats. So 
please tell your Colonel that I really shall have to be 
excused from accepting the position of chief nurse. 

Faithfully yours, 

Beatrice. 



29 



IX. 

Boston, Mass., Feb. 28, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

My experience in Red Cross nursing is progressing 
quite wonderfully. The other day Cousin Ethel's dachs- 
hund, Gretel, fell ill from auto-intoxication and he just 
squirmed and acted queerly on the parlor rug. 

We were at a loss as to what to do. I thought of 
pepsin luckily, and administered a fairly large dose by 
dribbling it down his tongue. In a short while, his con- 
dition took a decided change for the better, and he 
looked at me with kind, grateful eyes. I felt very proud 
of being some help in an emergency. Is that the idea 
in back of Red Cross work? 

We had a very heated discussion the other night 
at the club, regarding the Caduceus. The question was 
brought up by Margaret Bradbury. She wanted to 
know the meaning of the symbol. Margaret is incorri- 
gible. She always wants to know the meaning of 
things. Some said it was a kind of a tree, others a sort 
of Maltese Cross, and still others said it wasn't any- 
thing at all. 

Then Margaret, who is a trouble-maker, asked why 
it was used as an emblem. If it did not mean anything, 
why should the Medical Department of Uncle barn's 
army adopt it as an emblem? They might have taken 
something that had some sense to it, at least — a roll of 
bandage or an amputating knife or something like that. 

To settle the matter, we decided to call up a news- 
paper office, and they told us that it was the walking- 
stick of some old prune of a god — Greek, I think it was. 
We were more puzzled than ever. 

Why should they take the walking-stick of a Oreeic 

30 



god for an emblem? Especially when they are always 
starting campaigns of "America First." Surely they 
might have adopted something which was made in 
America, instead of Greece. And then I couldn't for 
the life of me see the connection between a walking- 
stick and hospital work. 

Mrs. Mason, president of our Red Cross chapter, 
explained the matter to me in full. She said that most 
of our men, when they get out of the hospital, will have 
to use walking-sticks to get about. That is why they 
hit upon the idea of using a walking-stick for a symbol. 
They went back to ancient Greece, she said, because it 
wouldn't have done to use a modern cane — that was too 
commonplace. They needed something classical for an 
emblem. I was quite satisfied with her explanation. 
(In the Evening) 

Mr. Jerrins, the banker, came to see mother this 
afternoon about some busineses^ and I asked him about 
it. He refuted all the other theories and declared the 
Caduceus was a stick with a couple of snakes around it. 
Snakes! Good gracious! I looked quite foolish, I am 
sure, because I couldn't see the point. 

Mr. Jerrins continued to explain. He said snakes 
and snake-bites were dangerous things; for, when you 
are bitten by a snake, you need some form of first-aid. 
Sometimes, you resort to a stick, and sometimes after 
you are bitten you call for help. The help that you 
get is called first-aid. 

Charles, my brain is in a whirl. I am sure I shall 
see nothing but walking-sticks and snakes for the next 
few weeks. 

Faithfully, 

Beatrice. 



33 



X. 

Boston, Mass., March 7, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

At the same time that I am mailing you this 
letter, I am sending you a life-preserver with emergen- 
cy provision pockets. The store at which I bought it 
guaranteed that it would keep a man afloat for five days 
or more. The pockets, as you can see for yourself, 
are intended for food. Do not neglect the butter pocKet 
when you fill them before sailing. The butter, the sales- 
man assured me^ would not spoil because at this time 
of the year the water is still quite cold. Isn't the war 
a wonderful thing? It has produced so many marvel- 
ous and stunning inventions. 

Charles, I want you to promise me not to sleep in 
the hold. A torpedo, I am told, always hits the hold 
first. With several extra blankets and your overcoat 
you could sleep fairly comfortably on deck or on the 
captain's bridge. The bridge is really the safest place, 
because then, if anything should happen, you would 
have enough time to decide whether you wanted to leap 
overboard or not. Isn't there usually a lifeboat or 
something on the roof of the captain's cabin? 

When you get to France, Charles, I suppose we 
shall both have to be discreet in our letters. The cen- 
sor, no doubt, censors everything. He reads all — even 
the most ardent letters. He is without a soul. Some- 
times, I am told, when a soldier sends kisses to his 

34 



sweetheart or wife, indicated by crosses at the bottom 
of his letter, the censor deletes them for fear it may 
be some secret code which he hasn't yet got onto. I 
don't imagine there is a code we might invent, that he 
wouldn't fathom at the end of two or three letters. The 
wretch! I can call him the names he deserves now, 
but later, I suppose^ he will delete them. It's all so 
brutal, Charles, so unfair. 

Would you consider it presumptious on my part, if 
I warned you against the wiles of the French women? 
Their "flyness" is too well known, for me to do more 
than mention it here. They are charming, no doubt, 
and that is exactly why I fear for you. Their charm 
will beguile you until you will forget everything— 
your family and your friends. So please, for my sake, 
be on your guard. 

The other day I saw a picture in the Sunday news- 
papers which was taken in Paris. In it there were many 
soldiers of almost all nations, and everybody was prom- 
enading in the company of a female person. Right in 
front, with a fast young thing on his arm, I recognized 
the picture, true as life, of Charlie Sandham, who mar- 
ried Mabel Stout, a school chum. 

Charles, you cannot imagine the heartache I shall 
suffer until the war is over and you come back — come 
back to — your friends. Good-bye for the present. 

Faithfully ever, 

Beatrice. 



35 



XI. 

Boston, Mass., March 14, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

There was a bit in the newspapers the other day 
about Medical officers, and it said that our Medical offi- 
cers were handicapped abroad because of their lack of 
sufficient rank. 

Now, you have never told me what rank you have, 
but I hope it is a high rank and that they will see to it 
very soon that you get a higher one. 

You must be half-way across the ocean at the writ- 
ing of this letter. I hope you will reach port safely 
■and in health. I have heard a lot recently about the 
horrible poison gas the Germans are using on our poor 
innocent soldiers, and that it kills hundreds at once. 

How horrid! Couldn't something be done? If I 
sent you some Djer Kiss perfume, do you thing it would 
neutralize the gas fumes? Something of that sort 
should be used by our brave soldiers over there. 

I understand that gas masks are very much in fa- 
vor in the war zone, although I have never been able to 
understand of what use a mask would be against foul- 
smelling gas, which asphyxiates one. 

At any rate, it will do no harm for you to put your 
gas mask on, as soon as you land in Paris, and per- 
haps over there you can purchase some of the Franch 
colognes which may be able to relieve whatever distress 
you may be compelled to suffer. 

You will please me very much, Charles, if you will 

36 



send me a picture of yourself standing against the 
background of a French chateau. I just love French 
chateaus. But please do not wear your gas mask, be- 
cause I think your features would be hard to make 
out. 

Faithfully, 

Beatrice. 



37 



XII. 

Boston, Mass., March 21, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

With Secretary Baker in France now, I suppose we 
at home can expect mail service between the United 
States and our boys at the front. The Secretary of 
War, I understand, is going to take messages from the 
men and deliver them personally to their friends. 

I hope you will not forget to ask him to visit us 
and tell us how you are faring in the war zone. All 
the girls of our coterie have expressed themselves in 
the highest terms regarding this noble work of his and 
have immediately set to work writing their sweethearts 
and friends, not to overlook this precious opportunity. 

I met with a sad disappointment the other day. 
Since you left for the sunny land of France, I have 
studied the advertisements assiduously regarding what 
{Our soldiers wear abroad. I want nobody to reproach 
me with a lack of patriotism. In one of the popular 
w^eeklies I saw an advertisement of Nettleton boots for 
officers. 

There was a picture of a tall, stalwart young man 
wearing high trim boots. It was wonderful! So with- 
out delay, I started out for a boot shop, with the idea 
of purchasing myself boots that would come as near 
as possible to the style that is in vogue among our 
brave fighters. 

I asked the salesman confidently to give me a high 

38 



boot of Nettleton make of a brilliant dark tan. And 
what you think happened? He informed me apologet- 
ically that the National Service or something like that 
of the shoe industry was restricting the color of leather 
and also limiting the height of woman's shoes to eight 
and a half inches. Now isn't that mean? They talk 
about conservation and patriotism in the same breath 
— as if indeed they were the same thing! 

I read somewhere not very long ago that the Eng- 
lish drink tea in the trenches. So, I am sending you 
twenty-five pounds of excellent English breakfast tea. 
I am very fond of the ways of the English. Aren't 
you? 

Faithfully, 

Beatrice. 



39 



XIII. 



Boston, Mass., March 28, 1918. 

I have been considerably perplexed of late and, 
seeing no clear way out of my confusion, I am going 
to open my heart to you. It is all about this Daylight 
Saving plan. I had it explained to me thoroughly last 
week and then I found, after attempting to put it into 
practice, that I didn't understand it at all. 

Supposing we put the clocks back one hour, I can 
understand that we will have twenty-five hours in the 
day instead of twenty-four, and that that will give us 
so much more time to sleep and do our shopping in. 
This will be great because the shops are so crowded 
nowadays that it takes from three to five hours more 
every day to do one's shopping completely. 

But here is a point I fail to understand exact- 
ly. I said to Mr. Briefcase, our family solicitor, after 
he had explained the matter to me fully, what exactly 
would be the objection to setting the clock back two 
hours, and thus making the day twenty-six hours long. 
Mr. Briefcase took the trouble to go over the whole 
matter again, and still I failed to be convinced. 

I am still of the opinion that the original idea oi 
saving daylight can be improved in some such manner, 
as I have suggested. 

Then I thought of China. I do not know how I 
came to think of China. But somehow China flash- 
ed through my mind, like an inspiration, and I thought 
that with China I would simply baffle clever Mr. Brief- 
case. I wanted to show him that I wasn't thr^ simple 
young thing he doubtless considers me. 

40 



China, I said, is enveloped in complete darkness 
during our own daylight, and vice versa, we are en- 
veloped in darkness when China has the sun. He agreed 
v/ith me, such was the case. Well, I continued, if that 
is really the case, why not do away with night al 
together, 

Mr. Briefcase raised his eyebrows with a start and 
looked at me in kind of foolish amazement. Yes, I 
said, why not put the clock back twelve hours instead 
of one hour? Then the difference of time between 
China and our part of the world, which is about twelve 
hours, would be done away with and we should have 
daylight at the same time all over the world. 

I went further than that, for a bolder scheme 
hurtled through my head. 

"Why not," said I with quiet coolness, "put the 
clock back the whole twenty-four and so do away with 
night entirely?" 

Mr. Briefcase gasped at the stupendousness of the 
idea. I could see that it had taken him completely by 
surprise. 

"By doing that," I went on, "you will be saving oil, 
gas and electric power; you will conserve coal; you will 
increase the output of manufactures; you will benefit 
the national health by more daylight, because of so 
many additional hours for recreation; you will reduce 
the cost of living, for persons will be able to rais5 
garden truck for domestic consumption — and you will 
also improve the training of our brave fighting forces." 

What do you think, Charles? After my enthusiastic 
explanation,, Mr. Briefcase said that he could not see it. 

Faithfully, 

Beatrice. 



41 



XIV. 

Boston, Mass., April 4, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

Now that the Germans have seized all the petro- 
leum interests in Rumania^ what are we going to do for 
Petroleum Jelly? Petroleum Jelly is quite necessary 
to the ordinary household as talcum powder and that — 
/at least the French kind — is growing scarcer and scarc- 
..er every day. 

I do not know, Charles, what will become of the 
world if all these necessary articles, especially cosmet- 
ics, are taken away from us. Some people will turn 
to cold cream no doubt, and when the bulk of the sup- 
ply of cold cream gives out, I suppose we will eke out 
the day's shopping with polished noses. 

Don't you think it would be most patriotic at this 
time to launch an anti-cosmetic campaign? The short- 
age of satisfactory French perfumes is positively ap- 
palling. Dear me, it is simply horrid, when you come to 
think of it. 

Imagine the soldiers returning and finding their 
wives, sisters and sweethearts, trudging home from 
their farmettes, with the implements of agricultural toil 
swung across their enlarged shoulders, and greeting 
them with shiny, glistening faces. 

And that reminds me to tell you that I am working 
whole-heartedly with the women's division of the Unit- 
ed States Employment Service which proposes to sup- 
ply women for farm work. This in addition to my in- 

42 



dividual spy-hunting campaign. "Swat the Spy" is my 
unlagging slogan. My masters are Dupin, Sherlock 
Holmes and the thrilling stories of Arthur B. Reeve. 

If everybody undertook to detect and capture at 
least one enemy agent, the United States would, I am 
sure, soon be rid of the insidious 400,000 who infest 
the land. 

In order to make myself fit for this task, which I 
consider my master-service, I have bought a sword, 
one set of Poe's works and two sets of Sir Arthur Conan 
Doyle, a magnifying glass and other implements, nec- 
essary to hunt down the underhanded system of Ger- 
man espionage in our beloved country. 

The other day I started my search, accoutred with 
several essential weapons taken from my supply of pa- 
raphernalia. I had always suspected our laundry- 
woman, who has a pronounced foreign accent. I never 
thought to inquire to what nationality she belonged, 
but I was almost certain that she was German, and 
sometimes she aroused my curiosity by her strange 
and unaccountable actions. 

I followed her one day to her tenement house. 
Holding my breath, I crept up the stairs and peered 
through the keyhole. I heard voices conversing in an 
outlandish jargon which I surmised must be German. 
Three men and a boy were leaning over a large sheet 
of paper spread on the table. They were all making 
mysterious designs on the paper and whispering. 

I complimented myself on the accuracy of my in- 
stincts. This was a nest of German spies. I slid down 
stairs noiselessly and called a policeman. Together we 
went upstairs. He rapped on the door. It was openea. 
A man came to the door. 



45 



"What are you doing here?" said the officer in a 
raucous voice. 

"I leeve here," replied the man, a trifle overawed 
by the policeman. 

"What are you and your friends doing there? What 
is your nationality?" 

"Mister p'leeceman," pleaded the man, so humbly 
that I pitied him, "I speak lettle English. I am a Ru- 
manian. My leetle son and my frainds, they play with 
— what you call it — a puzzle in the newspaper." 

We approached the table, and, to be sure, it was 
the American and each one was trying to solve one of 
those perfectly silly puzzles which they print from time 
to time and for which they offer some sort of stupid 
prize. I looked at the policeman, shame-faced and 
amazed. 

"Let me hear you speak Rumanian," commanded 
the policeman gruffly. It seemed that he had had ex- 
perience with spies before this and was inwardly deter- 
mined not to be outwitted. 

The man spoke a few words in his strange jargon. 
Then the policeman turned to me and said very po- 
litely. 

"Pardon me, Miss, I am sure this man is not a 
German. At least, he doesn't speak like one and he 
doesn't look like one. You see. Miss, as I was born in 
Bavaria and studied at the University of Berlin, I know 
the German dialects fairly well. And the language 
this man speaks, I can say with some degree of cer- 
tainty, is not one of the German dialects." 

Charles, can you imagine how I felt? 

Faithfully, 

Beatrice. 



46 




-TTKofis^ 



**1 Will not enlarge on the play' 



XV. 

New York, N. Y., April II, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

Mother and I have been visiting in New York, and 
we have been quite rushed to death making our rounds 
of the Soldiers' and Sailors' clubs and contributing our 
mite. Of course, all our activities along war work 
lines have been more or less exciting, but the most 
thrilling experience I have had thus far in New York 
was in connection with my espionage crusade. I have 
not been as successful as I should wish, but I feel every 
day that I am making appreciable progress in the right 
direction. Would you advise me to join a Pinkerton 
Sleuth school? I am seriously considering the step. 
My latest episode or experience, whichever you call it, 
in New York was most thrilling. 

It happened last night. You see Mr. and Mrs. 
Howe Marreed, with whom we are visiting, invited us 
to go to the theater. I will not enlarge on the play. 
It soon bored me, but the man who was sitting at my 
right soon attracted my attention. 

He had a harsh, round face, and wore a dark, 
threatening, bristling moustache. His gaze was seem- 
ingly directed at the stage, but I soon discovered that 
this was only a clever bit of camouflage, and that he 
was taking in every word that we were saying. Out of 
the corner of my eye I studied his face carefully. It 
was most exotic, to say the least, and soon I came to 
the conclusion that he was a German. 

As we were leaving, after the last curtain, I whis- 

49 



pered to Mr. Marreed to pile mother and Mrs. Marreed 
into a taxi and to utter no word, but to follow me, al- 
lowing himself a margin of twenty paces. Mr. Marreed 
started to protest, but I would not listen. 

Well, Charles, I followed the stranger. He was 
rather stout and stocky in build and walked slowly. We 
turned down Forty-fourth street. At Madison avenue 
he boarded a car. I beckoned to Mr. Marreed and we 
both followed after. At Fifteenth street, the myste- 
rious German got off and directed his way toward Ir- 
ving Place. We pursued, Mr. Marreed diligently keep- 
ing his twenty paces. 

At Irving Place, the stranger glanced behind; then 
came to an abrupt stop. He faced me, opened the lapel 
of his coat with a wide flourish, and then — 

"Halt," he commanded, flashing a police badge 
right in my face. "I'm from Headquarters. No sass, 
see! If youse don't answer my questions, I'll run youse 
in, and no bones about it, either. We's had too much 
trouble wid youse furriners of late." 

"Why — why — " I protested. 

"No back talk," he bellowed rudely. "Now you tell 
me where you come from. I know you ain't born in 
New York. You speak wid the dialeck of a furriner. 
I bin watchin' you ever since you entered the theayter. 
Where do you come from? No soft stuff; I want the 
truth." 

"Why why — we come from Boston." 

Luckily, at that moment, Mr. Marreed came up and 
explained to the detective that we were well-known 
Boston people, and that our patriotism was beyond re- 
proach, as we had three members of the family in the 
war of 1776, two in the Civil war, and at least half a 

50 




^'I followed the stranger *' 



dozen doing their bit at the present time. At first the 
detective would not be convinced. 

"What about that furrin accent? What about the 
yellow wispy German hair? I can tell when folks is 
speakin' American. This lady speaks wid a furrin ac- 
cent, I tell you, or my name ain't Tim Scanlon, the 
searchlight of the plain-clothes squad." 

Oh, Charles, it was terrible — terrible — to be sus- 
pected of being a German spy. Think of that! Mr. Mar- 
reed managed at last, by mysteriously uncreasing his 
bill-fold to settle the matter with Mr. Tim Scanlon, the 
searchlight of the plain-clothes squad. I breathed a 
sigh of relief. 

I am heart-broken — truly heart-broken. I was born 
and bred in poston. I have lived in and around Boston 
all my life, and — and do yoi; think I speak with a for- 
eign accent? 

Faithfully, 

Beatrice. 



53 



XVI. 

New York, N. Y., April 18, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

I am still in New York, but, due to the extraordi- 
nary fiascoes and amazing failures of my espionage 
hunt, I have renounced my intended career of sleuth- 
ing. Instead, I am now going in for research work as 
to the causes of the war and the most feasible method 
of ending it. 

I have sat for hours and hours pondering, analyz- 
ing, appealing to the innermost recesses of my mind 
for a suggestion, for a cure, which will surely end all 
wars. I want to proclaim my idea, when once I have 
discovered it, to the world, before Mr. Taft's League 
of Nations gets a firm and secure hold. 

After much thought, I have come to the conclusion 
that one thing would do it — one wonderful, soothing 
thing, and that thing is — guess? 

Just music — music, divine, seraphic, quieting, lull- 
ing music, the food of the gods. 

I reasoned that most people nowadays are driving 
in two positive directions. One is toward high-pitched 
emotionalism and the other is toward phleggma. (Oh 
dear, I do hope that I have spelled that word correctly.) 
Each day, as we walk down the street, we are continu- 
ally being attracted by lots of objects that are really 
unimportant, and as a result our heads keep moving 
and bobbing in all directions. How much worse will it 
be, when the deep blue heavens will be studded with 



aeroplanes? That's what we must seek to avoid, and 
music is the one thing that will do it. 

Now as to phlegma, there are some people, as you 
know quite well, who need a bombing party to arouse 
them to anything like activity, so great is their innate 
inertia. My theory, in brief, is that phlegma must be 
treated by the hypnotic power of music. And so it nat- 
urally follows, having done away with emotionalism 
and phleggma, all wars will end. 

These things cause all wars. I disagree emphati- 
cally with the writers on the present war, as to its 
causes. These two things are the only causes possible. 
So give us — the world — music, — the word thrills my 
backbone when I utter it — music — music. 

Charles, tell me how you like the idea. Does it 
impress you? 

Charles, I am ashamed to confess it, but I must, — 
it is all part of a speech, which was written out for me 
by a well-known musician, and which I must deliver at 
various clubs. I hope the subject is well presented. 
The decorative touches are mine. 

Faithfully, 

Beatrice. 



57 



XVII. 

Boston, Mass., April 24, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

After a brief career of lecturing on the mollifying 
effects of music and its immeasurable value in any sane 
drive for world peace, I am back in Boston with new in- 
terests, new ennobling preoccupations. 

Of late, I have been ruthlessly haunted with the 
nightmare which has materialized in the shape of a 
restless questioning: Am I patriotic? Am I doing all 
I can for the cause? Am I? And the only reply forth- 
coming, within myself, is that decidedly I am not. 

This is why I have sought to increase my war activ- 
ities a thousandfold. To begin with, I have joined a 
Knitters' Reserve Corps, of which Mrs. Blackdon Adams 
is chairman and I am secretary. 

My work consists in taking down the names of 
people who would like to join us, and sending them pos- 
tal cards when the meetings are called. Also, of ignor- 
ing and discreetly snubbing the people whose names we 
don't just like. That is the major part of my work, to 
be truthful, and it is very fascinating, I assure you. 
There are so many people in Boston whose names are 
not the names. You know what I mean. 

I almost forgot to tell you about our Liberty Loan 
parade. We wore simple white nurses' frocks with red 
sashes, and we looked very efficient and immaculate 
when we assembled. Charles, you have marched, — tell 
me, does one always get dusty and tired and parched 

58 



when one is on the march? My, but we did march! We 
marched up Beacon Hill and along Commonwealth Ave- 
nue, and — almost everywhere. 

We walked on cobble-stones, on car tracks, between 
car tracks. Don't you think it stupid of them, not hav- 
ing removed, the car tracks for the lofty occasion? In 
France, I understand, they have removed the trouble- 
some car tracks, so that the feet of their women might 
not become bruised and swollen. But in Boston they 
haven't. 

How tired and limp we were when we came to the 
end. We all looked for a tea shop, discovered one and 
darted into it, in order to recuperate. 

I cannot avoid thinking that we helped the cam- 
paign considerably, and Boston's quota will be largely 
exceeded because of our supreme sacrifice. Why, even 
our complexions were damaged, owing to the sun and 
the exertion. Of course, we were well prepared. But 
what do cosmetics avail, when one is on the march for 
victory? 

I have written to Washington about my own bonds. 
I told them expressly that the money I contributed was 
to go for flowers for you — and your comrades in the 
trenches. Perhaps the flowers will have a soothing in- 
fluence on those unspeakable rats! 

Faithfully, 
Beatrice. 



61 



XVIII. 

Boston, Mass., May 3, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

Many thrilling and uplifting things have happened 
to me since I wrote to you last. The war, with its hor- 
rors, its sacrifices, has vanished for me, and yet, strange 
as it may seem to you, I have been shaken to the very 
roots of my being. I do not know how to broach the 
subject to you, Charles. And, more than that, I cannot 
let you write to me any longer as you have. Please 
do not take it very much to heart. I know that you will 
be affected- Perhaps you will be bruised, and, being 
bruised will be bad for you at the front. 

Charles, I have wanted — Oh, so much! — to do my 
bit. I wanted to send a soldier to the front, but I had 
nobody to send. I have thought of you — well — tender- 
ly, resolving to make you cheerful and happy at all 
costs. The effectiveness of Mr. Baker's great army, I 
said to myself, shall not be diminished by so much as 
one soldier, if I can help it. But, Charles dear, some- 
thing wonderful, something tremendous has happened 
to me. Can you guess what? Can you guess? 

But my heart bleeds for you, because the news I 
must now divulge will touch you to the quick, and, who 
knows, perhaps rack you to inaction. Please, please, 
Charles, do not let Uncle Sam, President Wilson and 
his Cabinet lose you now, just when you are in the 
thick of the fighting at Fort Ontario. Bear this with 
noble valor. Look at the French, at the battle of the 

62 



Marne, the English, at Ypres, and the Somme! They 
had more to bear than you — infinitely more. Take cour- 
age from them, your noble Allies. But I must tell you. 

Do you remember Johnny Doughpate? He was a 
classmate of yours at school. Well, one day while moth- 
er and I were busy knitting and making trench candles, 
for you and your comrades at the front, who should 
breeze in but an officer — a Captain of Infantry! Think 
of that. He looked very smart and very much like no 
one I knew. He bowed and introduced himself. You 
can imagine the rest. It was Johnny Doughpate. i am 
aware that you did not think much of Johnny. Noboay 
did, in fact. The war has changed him and made him 
the most wonderful soldier I have seen or read about. 
He is just a splendid figure of a man. 

He took me to the theater that evening, and I was 
proud to have him at my side. And then, suddenly, 
when I least expected it, he proposed. Yes, Charles, he 
proposed, but in such an original manner. He said to 
me, "Beatrice, dear, I want you to give up knitting and 
candle-making and espionaging. I want you to forget 
the war and be my wife." 
"But you are going to France," I protested. 

"No, he said, with a bitter smile, "I am not going, 
Beatrice. I have just been discharged for flat feet." 
Nevertheless, Charles, he was a brave-looking soldier, 
and his manner was irresistible. He represented to me 
a sacrifice to the great cause of Democracy. I was de- 
termined at once to make him my sacrifice — my own 
small sacrifice, and so I accepted. 

The marriage has been set for a month from next 
Saturday. I am happy now in the consciousness that 
I have given at least one man to the service. Charles, 
our letters must now end. I have told him all about our 

63 



friendly correspondence. Frankly, he disapproves. He 
says that soldiers are not fit persons to associate with. 
Of course, 1 do not wholly agree with him, but I cannot 
go contrary to his wishes. Charles, our letters must 
now end. Let us be silent friends. For the present, 
until the war is over, good-bye. 

Sincerely, 
Beatrice. 
(Soon to be Mrs. John Chirp whistle Doughpate.) 



64 



Boston, Mass., November 11, 1918. 
Dear Charles: 

Peace has come! The armistice has been signed 
and the world, including Boston, is a sort of raging 
flame. I do not as yet understand it all. I cannot see 
why people should get so disgustingly happy and aban- 
doned, when there is so much to discuss, to talk about, 
to debate in connection with the great issues the war 
has aroused. 

It is such a very, very long time that I have writ- 
ten you, Charles, and I feel guilty and ashamed. Do 
not think that I have quite forgotten you. You have 
been in my thoughts night and day, Charles. 

What I have wanted to tell you during all these 
trying months — and I struggled hard — is that I have 
broken my engagement with Johnny Doughpate. John- 
ny was, as you know, a brave-looking, trig and trim 
soldier. His serge uniform fitted him like a Paris 
glove; his insignia were immaculately polished; his 
braid was generously broad; his Nettletons were the 
last word in boots. I, therefore, decided to accept him 
as my sacrifice in the great war. 

Was I selfish? Was I wrong? I wanted to do 
something for the cause, and Johnny, as you know, 
had flat feet. I think the military surgeons call it bi- 
flateral or something of the sort. Well, Johnny was 
bi-flateral on both feet and couldn't possibly be sent 
to the trenches. Suppose the Germans made a sur- 
prise attack. What would have happened to poor 
Johnny? 

65 



Of course, that was not why I concluded to break 
with Johnny. It was another matter entirely. It was 
because, when he finally resigned from the army, he had 
to discard his tailor-made uniform. And Johnny with- 
out his uniform — Charles, you will forgive me if I can- 
not suppress the hot gush of tears — Johnny without 
his uniform turned out to be a perfect fright. He 
was thin and rawboned. He was chicken-breasted and 
knockneed. Oh, Charles, it is all too horrible! The 
uniform was evidently padded and had been very well 
tailor-made by a military tailor. 

I simply couldn't marry Johnny Doughpate. 

Johnny's conversation was never brilliant as you 
know. Frankly, it bored me to extinction. And so, 
thus stripped of his military regalia, I could not pos- 
sibly marry him for his conversation. What would 
my friends say? 

Charles, I can but wait until the boys come home. 
I know that you will not be discharged from the army 
for some time yet. But, when you do return from the 
war, whether you wear a croix de guerre identification 
tag or other honor or not, remember that I am still 
your friend. 

I know that mother is — that we are waiting for 
your speedy return. 

Yours for the Peace Conference, 

Beatrice. 



66 



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